


Maybe There's a Universe

by ACompromisedMind



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers - Freeform, Hurt, Love, M/M, Marvel - Freeform, Separation, Stony - Freeform, relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 09:04:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6278224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACompromisedMind/pseuds/ACompromisedMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What universe are you from where you think we can just pick up where we left off?"<br/>"The one where I love you."<br/>-If only it were that simple-<br/>In which Tony returns from a personal leave, and while he knew things wouldn't be as they were when he left, he wasn't expecting them to be like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe There's a Universe

_“I used to think I could’ve been with you forever,” Tony stated softly, cautiously, slowly stepping along the thin glass layer, avoiding the cracks, suppressing the tremors. Looking into the eyes presented to him was an impressive blow to the chest, but he maintained the eye contact – too selfish to let go, too scared they wouldn’t be there when he looked back._

_“And now?” Steve asked quietly, lips parted, white teeth peeking through. He could feel his insides caving in on themselves, curling, folding, until they broke under the pressure they put on themselves, shattering, stabbing him, scratching him with all the jagged ends, opening him to every threat in the room – Tony’s broken pieces – making him vulnerable to being hit with the destruction he created, the pain he spurred on because his heart decided it could no longer hold onto an image, to love a ghost; he was the selfish one, letting go because it made his heart beat easier._

_“You don’t want to be with me.”_

_And that hurt. It hurt so much – more than it should’ve; he shouldn’t have felt a blade steadily pressing itself between his ribs, twisting jerkily, evilly, taking its time to tear him apart. It shouldn’t have been that bad, but it was, it was devastating, too much to handle, and the pained brown eyes, the unshed tears, it was the poison on the dagger, slowing down his body functions until they were nonexistent, his lungs unable to take in the air they needed, his heart unable to beat, for every time it did, it merely made him bleed out more. He was a monster that dad’s tried to protect their daughters from, that brothers never allow their sisters to converse with, that mom’s claimed they fell for, too, and say that no one should ever go through it – he was the dreaded man that people should avoid. And worse, those brown eyes still flooded with undying love toward him and it was a grenade, blasting him into pieces that were too far gone to repair. He wanted to die._

_“It’s okay,” Tony whispered, after minutes had passed by in dreadful, long, excruciating silence._

_“No, it’s not,” Steve added just as quiet, his mouth dry, his throat pricking at him. A heavy weight took refuge on his shoulders; he could barely feel the small, shallow breaths entering and exiting his lungs, the oxygen moving about his body. “I could’ve,” he started, trailing off when his eyes began to burn, his throat becoming blocked, “I wanted to,” his voice cracked, brows furrowed as he tried to keep himself even, to suppress his emotions, “I… I’m so sorry.”_

_“It’s not your fault,” Tony consoled. And didn’t that make it so much worse, that Tony didn’t blame him, didn’t hate him. It’d be easier if he was loathed._

_“I wish I felt it still.”_

_Tony nodded his head, a sad smile creeping on his lips as he took the few steps toward Steve, wrapping his arms tight around the other man, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Steve could’ve doubled over at the touch, his knees went weak and he crumpled against Tony’s body, squeezing him in his arms, pulling him as close as he possibly could, burrowing his face into Tony’s shoulder, a quiet gasp escaping his lips; he didn’t deserve this, but there, holding him, touching him, feeling his warmth after all the time that had passed, the tears poured, trailing down his face, leaving burn marks in their wake. He didn’t want to let go._

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            Alone, at a table for two on a Thursday morning, staring blankly into a mug of coffee, that's where he always found himself, it wasn't an unusual occurrence; it was as though some small part of him was still holding on - very barely - to something the rest of him let go of a long while ago. He was placed at the same table, in the same spot near the back beside the same window, underneath the same painting, Edvard Munch's _The Separation_. There was no devastating sadness within him; no hole in his heart; no terrible, dreadful, sinking feeling in his body, he was content despite his looks - his hunched shoulders, his tired face; many people gave him sympathetic looks, reassuring hands on the shoulder, and pitiful smiles. He didn't need any of that, though, not anymore; he had learned the hard way to shut his heart to the feeling of betrayal, the feeling that left him cold and unable to fall asleep - he let go of it because he had to, and perhaps in some dark corner of his mind, he had wanted to let go even if it was all he had left of the man who put him there in the first place. There was no consuming darkness within his soul anymore, however could there be? it's not as though he was in love, surely one never falls out of love, and he knew now, now more than ever, with as much certainty as he had ever encompassed before, he wasn't in love, never truly was... there was potential, of course, but he was too strong to allow himself to fall over the edge of the crumbling cliff of chaotic emotions and feelings, or maybe he never had the chance to fall, for someone was always holding him above it and yanking him back with cruel force before he had the chance to dive. It was all meaningless now, it didn't even matter; the man who opened his eyes to blinding wakefulness was gone and he wasn't sure why, probably wasn't worth enough to know. And despite what some would say, that did not leave him bitter; the liberation left him light and sweet, soaring - not being weighed down by feeling a way for someone who could never feel the same way back, it was weight off the shoulders, air beneath wings, it was all he needed to get up in the morning.

            The cloudless, clear sky became overcast, stealing any place the sun could peek from away, sealing the world beneath it in a gloomy, grey haze. The chair across from him scratched against the plank tile floor as it was pulled back, the aroma of the little cafe suddenly becoming tighter, tense, impenetrable with an air that possessed thousands upon thousands of loose ends, unexplained theories, unanswered questions, unvoiced truths. He remained still, gaze focused on the coffee in front of him, it’s unruffled surface, bleak face, it’s indifference – he began to envy it. Ease seemed to be inexistent at the moment, a sensation his body never felt, especially when he heard the velvet voice filter through the air, float around him in a haunting dance.

“It’s been awhile, Steve.” He bit his lip, making it go raw under his heavy clamp, drawing blood, a spark of pain flitting through him, all because he heard his name on the silk voice he hadn’t heard in so long – dreamt about, forgot about – and here it was, when he had finally accepted it would never be heard again, here it was, saying his name in its usual smoothness. It almost made him want him to die; it almost made him want to melt; it almost made him want to get up and leave with no second glance; it almost made him want to grab fistfuls of the shirt in front of him and tug the other body close and never let go. He did neither, merely let out a breathy chuckle, picking at the chipped dent in the square table, revealing its porous insides, his mind drifted to a night filled with laughs and hot breath and to a night with utter emptiness and cold sheets – they both hurt to the same extent, that was the worst part, he decided; not even the good moments were good. “I’m sorry,” it was soft, delicate and true, but it didn’t help – no amount of apologies would change the facts. He looked up unhurriedly, hesitantly, blue meeting brown – the waves of the ocean crashing magnificently against rocky shores, creating a picturesque scene of earthly beauty, natural movements. Sorry wouldn’t change what happened, but thinking back on it, the apology was unnecessary – Steve had already forgiven him, he had forgiven him the moment he decided he no longer cared.

            “Why?” He asked simply, wrapping a steady hand around the light green mug, bringing it to his lips to take a timed sip, briefly flicking his gaze anywhere but the man across from him. It was an excuse to look elsewhere, so he didn’t have to see the disheveled man before him, his distraught brown eyes, the frown on his forehead, the sorry fallen corners of his mouth. “After all this time, why now, Tony?”

            He sighed, licking his lips and focusing his eyes at the counter to his left, “You don’t know why I left,” it was a statement, but it was written on his face how the sentence was also a wonder, a wonder in need of confirmation. Steve nodded his head, biting his cheek. Tony chuckled, head falling as he shook it, “of course, I shouldn’t have...” he wiped a tired hand down his face, “I shouldn’t have thought he would tell you.” His stare was straightforward and strong, peering into Steve’s mind, at least that’s what it felt like. “I was stupid, and for some reason Fury… Fury had me go on some solo thing, to ‘figure things out’ and…,” he began picking at the pile of napkins that were lazily placed on the table, “I probably shouldn’t even be telling you this,”

            “Then don’t,” Steve interjected simply, sternly, gaze hard and unmoving, face set. He offered Tony a lopsided grin, eyes light despite the dimness of the cafe and the rolling skies overhead, “I’m glad you’re okay.” Tony nodded slightly, lips twitching in agreement. He was glad to be seeing Steve finally, after all this time, but guilt was nagging at his heart, latching its talons onto the grooves and sliding it downward, drawing blood with each jerky movement. It was evident in the irises, in the downward slope of his brow – he was hurt. Seeming to notice Tony’s train of thought, Steve leaned back in his chair with a deep inhale, “don’t feel too bad, it only hurt for a couple months.” And it was true; he spent much of his time working away the pain – going on extra missions, taking up extra hours at the gym, helping organize events – anything that could take his mind away from the everlasting pang of emptiness. But one early morning, before the sun even peeked through the curtains, he awoke with a realization that holding on was damaging to him and his friends, after a restless night of tossing and turning only to dream of melting kisses and burning hands, he knew he had to let go despite the want, the hunger, the _need_ of something to hold onto, something to remember him by – there were healthier ways to remember; sometimes it was better to just forget. In doing so, walking through the park was no longer a chore, stopping at the intersection was no longer a devastating feat. He was no longer burdened with the heavy pain, the satchel of emotions and feelings, he was free, and that was all he needed. Even if it did leave a sense of vagueness in its wake, well, that was just be a price he had to pay if not to at least have one good night’s sleep.

            “Hurting you at all, it wasn’t even on my list of things I wanted to do – ever,” Tony admitted sheepishly, ducking his head. He couldn’t look at Steve – didn’t feel like he deserved to. He probably didn’t, after all, he had left him in a compromising position – left _them_ in unexplored lands. It was almost like the whole _talking_ stage, where you know you're making a move with this person and you owe it to them to not talk to other people in the fashion you are to them - the beginning of commitment that neither of them really understood and usually ended with them walking home opposite directions, but then texting each other in the morning in hopes to continue the journey to see where the whole thing goes. They weren't dating. They weren't together. They weren't just friends. They were... testing the waters without actually getting in the water which made everything even more complicated, and him having to leave really didn't make it more comprehensible and showing up all of sudden wasn’t fair for Steve, especially when he has absolutely no idea where they even stand anymore – if there even is a _them_ anymore.

            “You figured it out then?” Steve asked curtly in his leader voice, changing the subject, for himself or for Tony, he wasn’t sure, either way he knew they really didn’t need to be talking about this now, in public of all places especially. Tony seemed relieved by the question, his face losing the tense lines and the guilt ridden frown as he nodded his head quickly, eyes downcast. Steve pressed his lips into a tight line, pushing himself out of his chair, Tony following in toe, shoving his hands in his pockets as Steve dropped a few bills on the table, making way to the exit with a dog nearly stepping on his heels.

            “Steve-,”

            “Tony, just... don’t,” he cut the other man off abruptly, turning around with a hand in the air, face filled with sorrow, a heavy force pushing down on his chest, squishing his heart until it could barely beat, barely pump the blood his limbs so desperately needed. A slow exhale pushed past his lungs, a drop of rain landing on his forehead, trailing down to leave a merciless streak along his face, an almost tear. There were things he wanted to say, things he _needed_ to say, but the surprise, the anger, the flushing despair, the overwhelming cloud inside his head, inside the sky, he couldn’t formulate the mixed up thoughts, the treacherous words, into sentences that made sense, to him, to Tony, there was nothing he could do. Thunder cracked in the distance, his shoulders sagged, the man in front of him looked as though he were watching a dog get kicked in the face. Steve swallowed dryly, painfully, his throat scratching, nails descending his esophagus, ripping him apart from the inside out. “Now’s not the time,” he managed quietly, barely a whisper, the words drifting through the air slowly, delicately, gently wrapping themselves around Tony – no forceful hand, no harsh screams – simple and there, soothing nothings into his ears.

            “When will be the time?” His voice cracked, but he covered it with a cough, his gaze shifting towards the sky, the violent swirling clouds encompassing his view. More raindrops fell. Steve reached out a hand and wiped away a droplet that had landed on Tony’s cheek, causing him to gasp at the touch – he hadn’t realized they were so close. The world surrounding him was gloomy, grey, and barren – dark with no promises, but looking at Steve, he was bright and he was true and he was _there_ , somehow radiating a sun that was hiding somewhere far, but despite it all, he was before Tony, _glowing_.

            “Just some other time,” Steve responded, hand falling heavily against his side, his brow furrowing deep. The world was dark and grey, shattering with the oncoming storm and Tony was clad in black, illuminated only the water flying off his body as it collided with him before falling to the ground to join all the other drops of water in a pool of no differences. He could feel his heart growing small, sinking away further behind his ribcage in an opening he knew wasn’t there. Throat stinging, the taste of bile rising, he turned hurriedly and jogged away, fading into the shadowy abyss of the thundering world, leaving Tony hopelessly alone on the corner of the street, the place that they would meet, if only given a chance.

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                Luck is a loose figure that travels freely about the plains, tapping people gently on their shoulders every so often, and, when it’s feeling generous, will hold on just a little bit, staying for minutes, hours, or days. But luck is a free spirit and never stays long. He’ll grant you with some of his power, but then will leave you to your own devices, sometimes stealing away any remnants of what he left behind, leaving you with no sign he was ever there – left with no such luck.

            No such luck, that’s what Steve was left with, he realized, as he wandered the halls of Stark Tower, a place he’d become so accustomed to, when everyone felt the need to be together. It was nostalgic and while he was sure he was meant to be down stairs, socializing and becoming reacquainted, he couldn’t help but stalk off to the old floor that could’ve been his and take refuge in the old room he could’ve slept in, filled with all the sentiments and furniture he would need; the person he could’ve been. He sat in the chair beside the dresser, an old, regular, simple wooden chair, and took out a sketchpad, opening to one of its many untouched pages, and began to whisk away with his charcoal pencil, allowing his emotional mind to take over, take control of the wheel that was directing the sketch. Usually, he drew with purpose – a thought, a goal in the end product – he had no idea what he was sketching now, there was no end product he was hoping to achieve, but with every stroke of the pencil, he could feel himself becoming lighter, as though some disturbed thoughts were trickling out of him and onto the paper, relieving him of unknown distress and anguish, feelings he harboured but didn’t consciously awaken to. Engrossed in the vivid image splaying across the page, unfinished, his hand began to falter, no longer able to continue, unsure of where to go from where it was – stuck. The door opened then, a soft whoosh as new air pushed into the room, a body awkwardly waiting within its frames before slowly sliding in, standing idly next to the far corner of the king sized bed that was once an offer to be his, covered in navy blue bedding with accents of grey – simplistic.  

            “I thought I might find you up here,” Tony stated through a forced amiable smile, his fingers digging into his thighs, his breathing quick and quiet. “Clint’s going to throw a fit.”

            Steve chuckled slightly, absently running his fingers across the smudged lines of the picture in front of him. “This get together was bigger than I anticipated, he knows I’m not too fond of parties – something bad always happens.” Tony nodded uselessly, for Steve wasn’t even looking at him, but should he even be surprised? It’d been six weeks since he went to the cafe, and with the few rare occasions they ended up in the same place, Steve found excuses to look anywhere but him, and when he couldn’t find an excuse...the eyes that faced him made his heart shrink, made his insides melt into acid. “You haven’t redecorated,” Steve observed after moments went by in silence, gaze still cast unto the sketchpad. “It looks just like it did when you gave me the invitation to live here two years ago.” Tony smiled, thoughtfully looking around the room,

            “Well I haven’t changed that much, as for this room... it seemed wrong to change it – not that I wanted to.” Steve looked up at him then, his face soft, void of lines and indications of what he was thinking, his blue irises were vibrant, gently capturing Tony’s soul. A sharp inhalation filled his lungs, the look was rounded, but it hit Tony sharply. “You look at me differently,” he observed, going for innocent and failing when it came off despondent and accusatory. Steve raised an eyebrow in his direction, barely taking his eyes away from the sketchpad before him, resting idly on his knee. “You used to look at me with light in your eyes,” he admitted sheepishly, ducking his head to avoid Steve’s gaze, he continued quietly, toeing at the ground, mentally slapping himself, “and a goofy grin on your face…” he trailed off, swallowing, choosing his next words carefully, analyzing them, calculating them, trying to determine the exact reaction they would create – trying to decide if it would be worth being so truthful. “It was… lovingly.” And there they were, they were said, there was no going back and catching them; they were dancing around the air, twirling in taunting circles as they traveled to Steve’s brain. Steve sighed, closing his sketchpad steadily and placing it on the dresser beside him, hand lingering over its cover before falling heavily onto his leg, he fixed Tony a pointed, unreadable gaze. That right there – that was something that frustrated Tony, he was no longer able to read the man in front of him, not the way he used to. He used to know when Steve was going to do something right before he did it. He used to know what Steve was going to say right before he said it. He used to know what Steve was thinking right before he voiced it. And now it was as though he didn’t know the man before him, and that wasn’t right. He was supposed to know Steve, know what was going through his head, but looking back into his blue eyes now… it was an abyss of things unknown. As though he were treading waters that he once swam so deeply within, only to come to the surface and figure out he had no idea where he was, what lurked beneath his floating body. It was wrong in every sense of the word, Steve was never supposed to become unknown waters – undiscovered skin. It frightened him, something he would never admit to anyone – not even willingly to the man who was causing such turmoil in his own mind. “Do you ever think about it?” He found himself asking quietly, slowly moving to sit on the foot of the bed, craning his neck slightly to watch Steve, analyze his expressions, his posture, calculate their meaning. “Do you ever think about us?”

            “I wasn’t aware there ever was an us,” Steve responded quickly – too quickly, Tony noted, the man was tense, his mind was running, with annoyance or with dread, he wasn’t sure, but it was running nonetheless, flooding with thoughts that had him on edge, avoiding eye contact as much as he was able, and making him angle himself in the opposite direction. “I was under the impression it was, what did you call it? Oh, right, an experimental run.” It was accusing, laced in venom and distress, but soft, so quiet he almost didn’t catch it, but he caught it – oh, the way it tangoed around him, a dance of ultimate sorrow; it stung. He was to blame, it was his fault; he was too emotionally constipated to be truthful and open to his feelings that he shoved them away, pushed them down within the furthest crevice in his mind, the deepest crack in his heart, and in doing so he wrapped his shard covered hands around Steve’s neck and squeezed, pulling him along for his own selfish fulfillments, leading the way to the cliff, the rotten, decaying, tumbling to the ground cliff of feelings and emotions, but he didn’t push him – no – he brought him right to the edge, held him over, hovering him above the darkness beneath and then yanked him back, harsh and fast, leaving him to bleed on his own atop the cracked ground. Steve was downtrodden, he realized, when his mind finally whipped away from the guilt and finally had him take in the man before him – tired, skin paler than usual, lips curved in a permanent frown, eyes puffy from lack of sleep or from being rubbed too often, he wasn’t sure, either way it killed him.

            “I’m sorry,” Tony whispered, face toward the ground, voice almost silent. He meant it, hurting Steve, it was the last thing he would’ve ever wanted to do. He was pretty sure somewhere it was illegal to make Steve upset, to make him look the way he did right now; he was paying the price for breaking the law, paying the price in his own broken pieces. “What were you drawing?” He changed the subject, hoping the silence would end; the awkward and devastating silence. A quirked eyebrow met him, a soft purse of lips, and a slow, tentative hand began to reach toward the basically forgotten sketchpad less than a foot away; it was opened slowly, the pages fanning out as he sifted through it, trying to find the one in progress., Steve set it down on the corner of the bed, gesturing for Tony to take it. His hand shied away when Tony reached out, he tried to suppress his displeasure, but he was still grateful that even with where they stood, Steve was still comfortable with showing him his sketches – he was the only one, after all.

It was a man, a man with no face, standing under a lone streetlight, one hand clutching his stomach, the other one reaching out to someone who wasn’t there; he was halfway to being doubled over, staggering backward, if the bend in his knees were anything to go by. There was a pure, crimson rose above his chest, placed over where a heart should be – the only part that had any color – and it was melting away, dripping down and dissolving into nothing – a gunshot wound. Or maybe a heart being ripped out of someone’s body by the hands of the one they loved. Or maybe he was looking too much into it. But that’s how it always was – Steve rarely sketched for nothing, he always sketched things that meant something to him; a friend, a home – or he drew things that had deep meaning to him or to the world; a brick being kicked away to reveal a key, a monument of a man who made a difference, the grave that he lay beneath. The sketch made a shiver run down his spine, he took a shuddering breath, placing the sketchpad gently back down on the corner of the bed, slowly folding his hands in his lap. He wasn’t sure what to think of the picture and when he looked to Steve he realize that he, too, didn’t entirely know what to make of it; it was a work in progress, an unfinished masterpiece – it made him think of _them._ There was no doubt in his mind that they could’ve been something spectacular, had he not found a way to ruin it before it even began. That’s what he did best, though, was it not? – ruin things before they had a chance to grow and prosper, rise above all in splendid example of what lowers should aspire to be.

“We should go out for coffee,” he suggested suddenly, out of nowhere, voice floating around, for once not threateningly, for once simply peaceful and sweet. Steve seemed to ponder it for a moment, face resting nicely as his gaze drifted briefly before sweeping back to wash over Tony, wistful and thinking, a ghost smile laying on his lips,

            “We could go now? I’m sure they won’t miss us.” It was simple, it was short, but it was enough to have Tony sighing in relief, his lungs finally relieved of the weight that encompassed them. His brown eyes lit up as he nodded his head, though his brain told him – shouted at him – that _hopes that are high are hopes that make you fall_ , and _hopes that are high are hopes that laugh at you as you descend downward in a spiral of chaotic emotions._ Steve glanced toward him then, blue eyes scrutinizing, as though trying to decipher the man before him, to burrow inside his mind and learn everything, learn everything to a T so he could rewrite it, draw it down from memory. He did look at Tony differently and it wasn’t even because Tony was changed or unknown, but instead it was he was changed – his thoughts, his feelings; he had never looked at Tony when there wasn't a potential to be in love with him. That knowledge was deadly; it almost sliced him in two - almost.

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            “I can’t remember the last time we did this,” Steve said chuckling, dabbing his face with a napkin, cleaning the drips of coffee that fell around his chin, “and I can’t remember the last time I forgot how to take a sip of coffee.” Tony laughed, illuminated by the light radiating off of Steve’s figure, warmed by the beautiful, serene man before him.

            “I can,” he began slowly, gaze falling to the table before washing over Steve with a friendly displeasure, “you, uh, forced me to come here after I spent two weeks straight in the lab,” a laugh pushed passed his lips at the memory, “you actually manhandled me all the way down here.” Steve burst then, his head going backward as he swatted the table and the action filled Tony with nothing but good feelings.

            “I remember that,” Steve stated happily, “I remember that.” He was looking at Tony now and, for the first time, his eyes weren’t dark and unreadable, they were light, ecstatic, and, god help him, loving. “You always did have the worst habits.”

            “Yeah, but I always had you to help me through it.” A silence fell over the table then, Steve’s face fell toward the table, and Tony would be lying if he said he didn’t care that those eyes were no longer on him. “Listen, Steve-,”

            “Tony, it’s not the time.”

            “You said that six weeks ago.” Tony whispered, a sad crease on his forehead, his brown eyes filled with desperation and need. “There’s no such thing as the right time, and Steve I need this.” He licked his lips, shaking his head. When Steve remained silent, he let out a shaky breath, taking the silence as an invitation to start the conversation that they both knew they needed. “I know what I said all those times when we were together,” he paused, willing away the tears he could feel pulling at his eyelids and swallowing down the burning lump in his throat. The air in the room was still and suffocating, but he forced himself to push through it, to find a way to survive without breathing. “You were never an experiment. And I knew that, I knew that the whole time, I just… well I’ve never been good at holding onto what I love.” He didn’t realize what he said, not really, until Steve’s head shot up, and he faced Tony straightforward – a deer caught in the headlights. “I thought about you every day,” he continued, ignoring the heat that was rising behind his neck and his ears, causing him to feel like he just took a dip in the sun. “But you’re not even trying. I’ve apologized. I’ve made efforts. You’ve done nothing, Steve, _nothing._ What am I supposed to do?” He could feel the tears stabbing behind his eyelids and he hated the way he raised his voice, but he couldn’t help the frustration and the suffocating, gnawing atmosphere had his insides twisting, folding over themselves uncomfortably, leaving Tony more disturbed.

            “There is no way to manipulate this situation in a way that makes it appropriate for you to get mad at me!” Steve barked back, an angry whisper, eyes burning, shoulders tense.

            “I’m not mad at _you_!” Tony threw back exasperatedly, muscles tightened; dry anger in his voice, his throat scratching, rubbing irate against itself; wet anger in his eyes, glistening in the low light with incomplete tears. Steve’s expression softened, a man whose eyes were fluttering open from a wonderful dream, rolling over to see that the best part was still there beside him. He leaned closer ever so slightly, his voice wavering and unsure,

            “Tony,”

            “No,” Tony ripped back sternly, pointing a silencing finger and getting up from the table, “drop it, Steve.”

            “Tony,” Steve repeated, following his movements and standing up.

            “You’re always telling me to learn when to leave it alone,” he continued, eyes wide and hard, almost daring Steve to try one more time. “Don’t you dare advance toward me Steve Rogers,” his voice was shaky and stern, his jaw slack. He began shaking his head, eyebrows pulling into a frown. The room was closing in on itself, on him, on them, stealing away the room to breathe, causing his lungs to burn with air he needed so badly – air that he had but couldn’t use to his advantage, it just sat there, trapped within his body. Blue eyes staring back at him, concerned, narrowed in curiosity and wonder, taking in his face to its entirety, swallowing up every minute detail as they would need to recreate it later on from memory. Tony’s chest was heaving with breath he couldn’t feel, he backed into another table, helping to stabilize himself.

            “This isn’t me leaving you,” Steve stated quietly, just above a pained whisper, tears welled in his eyes, sticking to his bottom lashes. He swallowed absently, forcing his gaze away from the troubled brown haired man in front of him. He exited the café, not caring about the wondering eyes following his movements. He had to force himself not to turn around, to see the devastation he created. But he also feared allowing Tony to see the wreck he was. Somehow, they would have to be okay like this.

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            Steve couldn’t feel his legs by the time he reached his apartment, they weren’t hurting, and his lungs weren’t burning, but they should’ve been, and his mind was running rampant, jumping in circles, tipping over baskets of thoughts he refused to think, of feelings he refused to feel. He didn’t expect things to be easy – far from it – but he didn’t expect things to be like that, he didn’t expect to have his world fall out of orbit and collide with giant masses, destroying it, destroying him. He couldn’t get the look in Tony’s eyes out of his head – he damaged the most amazing thing he ever had.

            “What you ditched the party to go on a run?” Clint asked accusingly, not angrily though, his arms crossed over his chest. Steve made a surprised sound, flicking his head in the direction of the couch where Clint was perched, silhouetted by the setting sun. “Before you ask, I picked locks as a living when I was a teen. Where’d you go? You and Stark just vanished, no one got to see you.” Steve swallowed, eyes glued to Clint’s, he knew that the other man had special awareness strategies, and it only took ten seconds for Clint to read everything he needed from Steve’s demeanor. “You and Stark?” He asked disbelievingly, wonderingly, grey eyes scanning Steve’s face. Steve’s shoulders fell and with a pink sky outside his window and a racing heart inside his chest, he fell down onto the couch, the story of him and Tony flying beautifully off his tongue, easily sweeping along the air, stealing the spotlight, stealing the show, a wonderful display of the most magnificent arts. Clint actively listened, never breaking Steve from his roll, but watching the vivid colors splash across the room, painting images of serenity and true happiness, smiling inwardly to himself to witness Steve in this way, but becoming unsettled when he realized this was no longer the way things were for them – it was evident in the disheveled way Steve looked when he got home; it was evident in the way his eyes took on nostalgic contentment; it was evident in the way his voice cracked slightly.

The air in the room became tight and heavy, the eyes glaring daggers at him were scrutinizing and hard, singing holes into his skull, peering deep into his being, his soul, reading over his secrets, his thoughts, his feelings, everything he kept quiet and hidden, everything he voiced, but never to a full extent – it was nerve-wracking, being read so easily when he wasn’t even opening himself to reveal the words.

 

            “I can’t believe none of us knew,” it was a hushed whisper, a breath of relief, Clint’s expression was one of pity and disbelief; it made Steve squirm slightly.

 

            “Yeah, well, we didn’t want anyone knowing… at the time.”

 

            “And now?”

 

            “It doesn’t matter.”

 

             And it didn’t – what was the past was not the present, definitely was not the future. “Our destiny could’ve been together, but it no longer is.”

 

            “I can’t tell if that hurts you or not.”

 

            “I…” Steve trailed off, eyes flitting across the room, landing on a wooden box stained in dark blue ink, smudged with a towel and hands in vain effort to clean it up. “I used to think we were meant to be, but we’re not anymore,” he finished slowly, like a patient under hypnosis, his eyes taking in every crack and crevice of the messy wooden box, his brain took him back to a simpler time,

 

            _“It’s okay,” Steve laughed, his eyes crinkled at the corners, face illuminated in brightness. He tugged Tony away from the wooden box he was frantically trying to clean, a slur of unidentifiable apologies sliding off his lips. “It’s okay,” he said again when the other man was facing him, he lowered his head to look directly in Tony’s warm brown eyes, “it’s like physical evidence that you were here – that we’re here, just like this.” He explained, glancing over Tony’s shoulder toward the wooden box filled with memories from his first life, now covered in a mess of dark blue ink, smudged in efforts to wash it away. He grinned, “and I enjoy this, right here, us.”_

_“You’re such a sap, Steve,” Tony countered, any attempt to be judgmental wicked away with the light in his eyes, the beaming radiation from his wide smile. Steve leaned in, a soft, tender press of lips. “My sap,” Tony muttered against his mouth, ink smearing on the back of Steve’s neck, completely ignored as their minds wrapped with the thought of the other, bubbling satisfaction in their chests, sending hearts aflutter; had anyone ever told them that one day they would be like this, they would’ve laughed, brushed it off, pushed it aside as their minds were assaulted with the hope that it could be true, that one day they could openly place their hand inside the other’s, that one day they would have the freedom to wrap their arms together, that one day they would have the chance to pull each other aside and place soft, tentative, secret kisses across the other’s skin._

_Their place was together – any land, any place – they just needed to be together._

 

           “And how does that make you feel?” Clint’s voice tore him away from the memory. It was a simple question, but it wrapped itself around Steve’s lungs tightly, pain erupting throughout his chest – an asthma attack.

 

          “I could’ve loved him.”

 

          And just like that, four simple words harboring an immeasurable amount of weight caused the walls to come crashing down, the room no longer there, Steve’s emotions completely, utterly bare, his defense mechanisms melting away with the air being kicked straight out of him, a death punch to the throat, a heel kick in the popliteal, his barriers gone, his fortitude, the one he built with as much dexterity he had when he searched for Bucky, was gone, no trace it was ever there in the first place. The weight of pushing the truth down was whisked away, but the weight of _knowing_ settled on his shoulders, hitching itself to his body, making him weak, for it was heavier than the other. Laugh, cry, scream in pain, yelp in joy, he couldn’t decipher anything, couldn’t sift through the organized, now messy, files in his head to figure out what to do, what to say, what to feel. He had never been like this. Even when he thought he lost Bucky, he knew exactly what to feel – anguish, guilt, despair, loss, despondency. He didn’t know what to do now, a whirlwind of chaos; everything was tumbling around, landing in places they didn’t belong. _Never alone in your own head, especially when everything screams at you, whispers to you, begs you to remember – to hold on – because maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t have to be like this._

 

         The hand landing heavily yet gently on his shoulder tore him away from the turmoil in his brain, the first thing he saw when his eyes finally adjusted was Clint, a concerned, amiable expression on his face, calculating and understanding eyes. But behind the colored irises, he could tell, he could tell Clint could see everything that was shielded by the mask he tried so desperately to hide behind; Clint could see the way love was shredding pieces of Steve’s heart away, swallowing up delicate moments, replacing them with thorns; he could see the way that Steve had to fight it, could see the way that it was easier to push the love down then to act on its wildest temptations and desires, for those usually furthered the descent towards utter pain and suffering. “It’s going to be okay.”

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            When Tony got back to the Tower he was a mess, but not the kind of mess that made him want to drown in alcohol, nor was it the kind of mess that made him lock himself away in his lab. No, this mess was much worse than those. This mess had him going straight to his room and making a mess of it. The only thing he could manage doing was pushing things out of their place; sliding everything off the shelves, taking off his bedding and leaving it in a heap on the floor, as though creating some chaos would get rid of the rampant train in his mind. He was pacing. Tony Stark didn’t pace. He royally messed up, he really did. He knew how he felt, but at that café, the way Steve looked at him – for once not distant and unfamiliar – had Tony’s inside raging in emotions. He kicked his dresser, causing a picture frame to fall forward on its face, a scrawled note on its back revealed to the world. Tony stared at it, his breathing shallow as his eyes welled up with tears and his mind drifted to happier times, back when things were simple and he didn’t constantly feel a weight sitting on his heart, pushing it down, and growing spikes that ripped it apart only to put it back together and rip it open again.

            _Steve scooped up a framed sketch of 1940s Brooklyn that he gave to Tony for his birthday, claiming history books didn’t do it justice and that it was an original work – Tony had always been subtlety hinting about wanting a sketch of his own – and wrote a small note on the back, ignoring the questioning eyes he was getting and the constant ‘what are you doing’. “You’re only allowed to look at it when you feel like the whole world is tumbling down around you.” He held the picture up high, fixing Tony a mock stern glare._

_“Steve,” he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest, an unamused expression lining his face. Steve raised his eyebrows in defiance, straightening his arm to hold the sketch up higher, puckering his lips in a childlike manner,_

_“Promise me.”_

_“You’re a walking cliché,” Tony stated, his fake annoyance clear in the smile on his face, “I promise,” he stated exaggeratedly, snatching the sketch once it was lowered and placing it firmly back in place atop his dresser beside miscellaneous gadgets and sentiments. The only one he really cared about was the sketch, and the group photo from a Christmas party, that was a disaster to say the least, but the contentment in all of their faces was enough to make his insides swell with warmth. He turned toward Steve who wore a knowing grin on his face. Tony rolled his eyes, jabbing Steve in the chest with a small ‘shut up’, causing the tall blonde to laugh and wrap his strong arms around Tony, pulling him close until they were flush against one another._

_“Did you ever imagine we’d end up here?” Steve asked lowly, eyes hooded as he rested his head atop Tony’s lightly._

_“I’m just trying to get into your pants, soldier,” Tony responded, earning a lighthearted smack on the back of the head, causing him to chuckle and nuzzle closer to Steve’s chest, “I guess I enjoy your company, too.”_

_“You guess?” Steve asked with mock hurt, backing away and holding Tony at arm’s length, placing a hand over his heart._

_“Mmm,” Tony hummed, tugging at Steve’s arms and placing them around his hips, “I’m not so definite yet.”_

_“You’re manipulative, Tony Stark.”_

_“You love it.”_

_Steve remained in place a while, biting his bottom lip, his face filled with concentration as he thought about what Tony said, making the other man pout slightly before he caved,_

_“Fine, I am fascinated by your company.”_

_Steve smiled mischievously before leaning in to give Tony a chaste kiss, pulling away before Tony had the full chance to reciprocate._

_“And you say I’m manipulative?”_

_“You love it.”_

_Tony grinned, brown eyes bright as they connected with glowing blue, “yeah, I suppose I do,” he whispered, carding his fingers through Steve’s hair, pulling him downward and connecting their lips once more in a rushed, but synchronized movement that neither of them hesitated to fulfill and enjoy._

His vision was blurry when he came back to his senses and he wiped away the few tears that slid down his face, leaving fiery trails in their wake. Hesitantly he reached out, gripping the sketch and holding it tightly to his chest. He closed his eyes, his breathing slow,

            _You’re only allowed to look it when you feel like the whole world is tumbling down around you._

            He was almost afraid to look, too scared that what it said would be the end of all things, because surely whatever he wrote could’ve changed within the last year, probably did change. Everything else did. As the air became cold and thin, ghosting across Tony’s skin, forming goose bumps along its surface, Tony brought the frame into his view, slowly, hesitantly, unsure if he really should, he allowed his eyes to sweep across its smooth back, he allowed his eyes to take in the neat scrawl, he allowed his brain to analyze the words. A breath he wasn’t aware that he was holding burst out of his lungs and all his organs felt as though they had fallen off the top of the tower as he took in what it said neatly and clearly, as pure and honest as Steve’s eyes the day he wrote it. Tony knew what he had to do, regardless of the outcome; he just had to do it. He owed Steve that much. He owed himself that much.

           

_Out of everyone it could’ve been… I’m glad it’s you._

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`           The frigid fall air wrapped around Steve’s body as he walked through the park, void of any other person – being that it was cold and late. Clint had stayed with him for an hour or so, watching movies and being their regular selves. They hadn’t had one-on-one time in what felt like ages since work was always throwing them in opposite directions, and when there was off time, something came up and ruined any chance of hanging out. Having Clint there after things went south with Tony made it a little easier for Steve to move and he was glad Clint knew – there was no doubt in his mind that Natasha was going to be made aware of everything, which he was fine with; he even subtly hinted at it – he was always under the impression it would be terrible if they knew, if people found out, but the truth is, it wasn’t – nothing would change and things would be fine.

            Except they weren’t. At least, not right now. He had thought it wouldn’t be difficult to let go. And it wasn’t – the act of letting go was liberating and true, but the consequences of no longer holding on, those were knives straight through the heart; the consequences were the difficult part. It was easy to remember a time where it was impossible to imagine things being like this. It was easy to remember a time when he was hardly ever walking alone. It was easy to remember a time when the only concern in his head was if he’d slip up and say something stupid. He used to long for those days, for their simplicity or for the people they were, he wasn’t sure, but he longed for them nonetheless. Now, thinking of them spurred on some vacancy in his chest and made his mind falter slightly because something just wasn’t right – it was off by the smallest of numbers and it left him feeling misplaced, as though this wasn’t his true home, something was _missing_. But he couldn’t let himself dwell on that feeling, it would tear him apart and cause problems that he didn’t need to face, problems that could be easily avoided if he’d just stop thinking of the past and just deal with the present. _Nothing is going to change what happened, and nothing is going to change the person you’ve been for the past year – the person you are now._

            “I was wondering how long it would take you to get here.”

            The friendly voice pulled him away from his train of thought and his gaze landed on a familiar face, drenched in nervous sadness and determination. He went for a polite smile, but it quickly fell, feeling too wrong on his lips. “What are you doing here?” He asked, slowing down as he approached Tony who was sat peacefully on one of the many park benches beneath a streetlamp.

            “You always walk these trails and I needed to talk to you.” Tony paused, taking a slow breath, looking toward the ground before standing to face Steve, when he looked up, his jaw was set, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, his eyes glistening. “You said to read it… you said to read it when I felt like the world was falling apart.”

            Realization dawned Steve then, his jaw going slack, “Tony-,”

            “No,” Tony interrupted, voice stern, “I need to say this because I need to know that you heard it and I need to know that I said it.” Steve nodded his head, eyes fluttering away as he prepared himself. Tony took in a deep breath, steadily letting it out before he continued, “I am so sorry and I will never forgive myself. I was- I was scared. I couldn't hurt you. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I cut you with all my jagged ends. I didn't want to hurt you, so I left, but that did hurt you, and it was selfish of me because _I_ was scared and I wouldn't have been able to live with _myself_ , and I didn't even consider what it would do to you.” He could feel tears trying to find their way past his eyelids, but he willed them away, biting his bottom lip as he watched Steve nod, eyes glued somewhere in the distance, jaw held in a tight lock, making his cheekbones more prominent. “I've never been good with amazing things. I never had the luxury to know what to do when I fell in love. You. You are the most amazing thing, and I didn't want to corrupt that, and I didn't think that someone like you would...” he trailed off when Steve finally turned to look at him, his face the same as it was at the café when he mentioned love – caught in the headlights of confession. “I love you, I knew that before I left, deep down, I knew. And I knew that every day that I was gone. And I wish that I had realized sooner, I wish that I allowed myself to feel it because then maybe we wouldn't be here right now.” He swallowed, keeping his emotions at bay because he had to get through this – for him, for Steve. “And I look at you and I can't shake the feeling that you...” he shook his head, taking in a short breath, briefly glancing elsewhere beside the man before him, “please don't tell me that it's over. Please don't tell me that there's never going to be a chance for us.”

            Steve gave him a broken onceover, eyes dark and flooded with grief and guilt. He licked his lips, eyes dancing toward the sky before settling back on Tony, swallowing his features, Steve rubbed his hand absently at his mouth and cheeks, wiping away tears that weren’t there.

            “I just…” he trailed off, worrying on his bottom lip. He never spoke it aloud, it was merely a thought, a tendril of something that had no breath, but he would be giving it a heartbeat as soon as the words left his tongue; he would be creating a new life, a new life that would claw its way through Tony’s chest, would tear its way through his body, ripping him apart. Steve knew it would happen; it was evident in the irises staring back at him, buried with grief and regret, that the words – the truth – would be stained in red. He almost didn’t want to continue, how could he ever live with himself knowing he caused the most beautiful moments in their lives to turn murky, to decay into rotten filth, a red rose melting away like a gunshot to the heart? It was with a heavy heart, pounding fiercely against a rib cage caving in under the weight of his sorrow that he opened his mouth, “I don’t feel that way anymore.”

And there it was – the face of a man who was attacked with realization that he’d just been stabbed, squarely, evenly, right in the gut with a ragged dagger by Steve – the best friend he was once more with. It killed Steve, truly and utterly thrashed him into shreds, he couldn’t breathe, not when the man in front of him – _his_ best friend – was taking slow, shaky steps back, his eyes distant and watery, his jaw slack in shock as he placed a firm hand on his stomach, as though that would help will away the pain – the pressure on the wound. Steve wanted to cry, he could feel the tears stinging behind his eyes, could feel the burning sensation in his nose and throat, the reaction his words elicited was climbing on his shoulders, pushing him down, digging its monstrous nails into his shoulder blades and collar bone; his knees were shaking, growing weak. The face before him - defeated, broken, dying - it completed the sketch he could never make whole. How could he ever live with himself when he just took the most serene moments and colored them grey? How could ever live with himself when he just took all their smiles and cut them away, forcing them to drown in a pool of crimson? His mouth was dry, covered in copper, his mind was screaming, begging him to remain still, remain silent, but he couldn’t.

He took the quick step forward, cupping Tony’s face in his hands and making their eyes connect once more; he needed to see what his words would cause – the power that they had, “maybe there’s a universe,” he began quietly, softly, holding Tony near him like he was the most delicate thing – and he was, he deserved the gentlest of touches, but Steve gave him the harshest of words. “Maybe there’s a universe where we end up together.” A broken sound escaped Tony’s lips as he leaned in closer to the touch, it ripped Steve apart. “And maybe in that universe we’re together laughing about how in another, we aren’t together.” Tony closed his eyes, a sad excuse for a smile forming on his lips, “and that’s this one – here. That’s _us here,_ we’re that universe.” The tears fell freely from Steve’s eyes, leaving behind ashes in their wake, trailing down his cheeks and neck in an everlasting fire. His insides were screaming, breaking apart, burning in acid, everything hurt – he could only imagine the way it was hitting Tony – destroying him, breaking off every already broken piece until there was truly nothing left to salvage, a messy heap of absolutely nothing, drowning in the pieces of himself as they filled him up only to rip him apart further – _killing him._ So Steve wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close until they were flush against one another before falling to the ground, a heart shattering sob escaping his mouth, piercing the still night air as they collided with an earth that seemed to be crashing down, and he held him – held him like he was the last thing, and mouth pressed tightly against mussed brown hair, a shaking, sobbing mess of a man inside his arms, he whispered, low and broken, tested and true, blood dripping off of every word, “I loved you.”


End file.
